by Nazri Noor
“For what it’s worth,” Carver called out, “I agree. In time, you might make a good father.”
I wasn’t expecting a compliment from Carver, of all people, and certainly not one about my untested and nonexistent parenting skills. I felt my skin redden a little and scratched the back of my head.
“Gee,” I said. “Thanks, Carver.”
“Come,” he said, patting the cushions. “Sit. You must understand, Dustin, this Mason boy, you were in his place once, too.”
I sighed. “I know, I know. It was too familiar, the situation he was laying out. I can relate.”
“Good,” Carver said. “Then one hopes you will get along, eventually.”
“Please. I said I could relate. I didn’t say I could stand him.”
“Some days, I feel like the matron of an orphanage, and none of my boys will listen.” Carver shook his head. “In time, then. Perhaps. For now, you must explain to me. What is this festival of sausages? Is it some sort of contemporary holiday?”
I cringed as I walked over, flopping onto the couch next to him. “Oh my God, Carver, this conversation feels so unnecessary.”
He frowned. “The insistence of modern youth on using such frustratingly vague terminology is what I would consider unnecessary, Mister Graves.”
“Fine. Fine. It’s because we’re all guys here.”
“And?”
“Please don’t make me say this.”
Carver steepled his fingers together. “Mister Graves. On occasion, it is the master that must learn from the student, yes? This would be one of those times. Also, if you do not answer soon, I will be very tempted to dock your pay.”
“Okay, fine. Everyone who actually lives in the Boneyard is a dude. And as dudes, there is a specific part of our anatomy that – well, it resembles a sausage.”
“The phallus?” Carver cringed. “How uncouth. And dreadfully unfunny. Now why on earth would we hold such celebrations? These festivals of sausages?”
“Sausage parties.”
“Yes.”
“It’s – it’s not a party. It’s just a way to express how there are no women in the Boneyard. We’re all men here. That’s the joke.”
“That only confuses me more. This modern jargon of yours wastes both time and breath. Sausage festivals indeed.” He harrumphed. “But speaking of sausages, it has become apparent that our new guest is very fond of them.”
“How do you know that Mason likes sausages?”
Carver raised an eyebrow. “What? No, Dustin. Our other guest. The one called Banjo. If you could be so kind as to fry up one or two of them for him? As a treat.”
“I really don’t think we should be feeding a little dog sausages, Carver. Or any dog, for that matter. Wait. Have you been giving Banjo sausages?”
Carver’s eyes slowly flitted to the left, then to the right. Finally, they settled on me. “No,” he said.
“You’re a terrible liar. No more sausages. But more importantly,” I said, chucking him in the shoulder, “are you actually spending time with Banjo? That’s adorable.”
Carver straightened his posture, brushed off his shoulder with the back of his hand, and cleared his throat. “I was only keeping the creature company. It seems there was no cause for fear after all.”
“Where is he now?”
“Under my desk. He has taken a liking to the space there. I have provided him with a bowl of water, and a second bowl filled with the dehydrated remains of various small animals.”
“So he has kibble?”
“Yes. And Asher has kindly placed the mats that Banjo requires for urination and defecation nearby.”
I couldn’t take it. This was too friggin’ cute. Carver, our undead boss, notorious for his chilly, brusque demeanor, was in love with the exploding corgi.
“Then it seems you’re all set. But no more sausages, please. Tell you what, here’s something you can give him.” I reached for my backpack, rummaging around its inside pockets. “Have you heard of Puppy Yum biscuits?”
Chapter 22
It was still kind of strange seeing Carver develop an affection for – no, an actual attachment to Banjo. More importantly, I thought it was cute. Carver, who rarely wore anything less restrictive than a tailored suit, had somehow managed to sit on the floor, the better to hand feed Puppy Yum biscuits to his newfound fur baby.
Carver made cooing noises, leaning against the front of his desk as he laughed, dodging Banjo’s exceedingly enthusiastic licks. This was the closest any of us had come to seeing Carver let his hair down, and I felt a little special being allowed to witness that kind of vulnerability.
He wasn’t even wearing his suit jacket. Just a shirt. I’d never, ever seen that. I mean, I wasn’t even mad that he took my entire stash of doggie biscuits. I could pick up another batch the next time I headed out of the hideout. Plus in between playing and licking Carver’s face, I was pretty sure I saw Banjo looking over at me with something like gratitude in his little eyes. Pretty sure.
I tried to catch up with the others as they gave Mason the grand tour. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t exactly have a reason to play nice with the kid, given how nasty he’d been to me. But fine. He’d come all this way, searching for some grand, unknown something, only to find me at the end of his accursed rainbow.
And come on. Was that really such a bad thing? I’m better than a pot of gold. Can a pot of gold make you microwave dinners, fold a fitted sheet badly, and leave socks all over the bedroom floor? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Based on the route they were taking, the only thing Mason really hadn’t seen was the new dojo, the Dustin-gets-his-ass-beat platform the Boneyard had lovingly sculpted for my use. They were near or around Gil’s makeshift gym room, from the sound of it. So I headed to the dojo, sat cross-legged on the floor, and stared out into the abyss, waiting for the others to show up.
Which took way longer than expected, to be frank. The abyss didn’t offer much entertainment, and I was about to reach for my phone when my backpack began to wriggle. I opened it, watching as Vanitas hovered gently out of the interdimensional space, then settled with the tip of his scabbard resting against the floor, like someone standing on one leg. He lifted up and landed a couple of times, tapping himself off. A few leaves and a tiny little twig drifted to the ground, souvenirs from his time in the trees.
“Something smells different,” he said, his garnets glimmering.
“Yeah. Remember the second thing that attacked us tonight? It was a half angel.”
“Half of an angel? How gruesome.”
“No,” I grunted. “A half angel. A nephilim.”
Vanitas’s telepathic voice gasped inside my head. “And he’s here, right now?”
I reached out one hand, lifting a finger in warning, but ready to grab him and pin him to the floor if necessary.
“Listen. We’re supposed to be friends now, or something. He attacked us because of a misunderstanding. I feel like you should know all this already, weren’t you listening?”
He huffed. “I wasn’t sure who you people were even talking about. Context. Didn’t even get a good view of his face.”
I pressed my lips together. “It’s either that, or you’re still grumpy over not getting to taste blood tonight.”
He lifted off, then bashed into the ground, his version of impetuously stomping his foot. “It’s not fair. Two fights – against a demon, and an angel, both things I haven’t properly tasted – and I didn’t even get to draw blood.”
I gently patted the ground by his foot. Scabbard. Whatever. “You’ll get your chance some day, buddy.”
He harrumphed, then rotated so that the garnets in his hilt faced away from me, and into the abyss. Vanitas was sulking. Don’t ask me how I knew. I sighed, and joined him in staring back out at the inky blackness.
But not for long.
“Hey.”
I looked over my shoulder, surprised to find Mason on his own. I tilted my head, peeking around h
im, but he was alone.
“Where’s everyone else?”
Mason shrugged, getting down on his haunches, then sitting fully on the floor beside me. “The werewolf and the vampire got into this pissing match over who could lift the most. I got bored and snuck off. Last thing I saw, they were taking turns bench-pressing that Asher kid. I think they’re going to bench-press your boyfriend next.”
“Huh,” I said. “I mean, they could try, but that really depends on Herald’s mood. Anyway.” I waved a hand around myself. “This is where I practice magic, sometimes. And that’s the abyss.”
Mason stretched his arms behind him, leaning on the palms of his hands. “Wow. Looks like a whole lot of nothing.”
“Accurate.”
Vanitas cleared his throat. Mason looked over at him, drawn by the glowing garnets set in his scabbard.
“Ahem,” Vanitas repeated.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said out loud. “I heard you the first time.”
Mason turned to me, frowning. “Are you talking to me?”
“No, no. The sword. This is Vanitas. He’s my friend, bodyguard, and not-so-secret weapon. It’s a long story.”
Vanitas rotated, the tip of his scabbard grinding into the stone floor, and I couldn’t tell you how I knew, but it felt like he was glaring at Mason. The two of them stared each other down for a moment.
Mason narrowed his eyes. “Um. Nice to meet you. I’ve never met a sword before.”
Vanitas grunted. “Dipshit.”
Mason looked at me again. “Did he say something just then? His gems started glowing.”
“He said it was nice to meet you,” I offered hurriedly. “Hey V, why don’t you go get some rest? I’ll catch up with you later.”
He didn’t go quietly. Vanitas levitated slowly towards the corridor to our bedroom, grumbling the whole way. I shook my head again.
“You guys are roommates?” Mason asked.
“Yeah. It’s complicated.”
It was Mason’s turn to shake his head. “This is all so new to me, man. Flying swords, vampires, werewolves, whatever Carver is, whatever you are?”
I gave him a tight smile. “A mage,” I said. Just a fire mage, I thought, not without a little glumness. With the Dark Room, I would’ve had more to tell him about being a shadow mage, but yeah. Life was better away from the Dark. “I do fire, the way Herald specializes in ice. Which brings me to my question. What is it that you can do, exactly? You carry around a magical transforming shield or dagger thing?”
“You mean the Vestments,” Mason said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Vestments,” I said. “Like, with a capital V. The way you said it made it sound all important.”
“Yeah. It’s bizarre. The stuff I can conjure, the dagger, the shield? That’s supposed to be part of heaven’s armory. Their Vestments, like physical, actual weapons and armor that you’d see equipped by the celestial host. I can borrow that stuff, use it if I need to, but only for a little while. That’s all I understand of it.”
I gaped at him for a moment. “Wait. So you’ve got like this entire arsenal that you can basically – no, literally pull out of thin air?”
He clasped his hands together, stared at the space between his thumbs, then nodded at me.
“So like swords and spears?”
“I think so.”
“Throwing stars?”
He scratched the back of his head. “Sure, maybe. I haven’t tried.”
“That’s so fucking awesome.”
I could tell Mason was trying really, really hard not to grin at me, but his back did straighten a little, his chest puffing out just the slightest.
“Gotta admit, I’m a little jealous,” I said. “How’d you learn about all that Vestment business, then?”
Mason scratched the end of his nose, then looked away. “A friend told me.”
Right. I figured I wouldn’t pursue the matter much further, not when we were getting along so well. No sharp exchanges just yet, and more importantly, no instruments, blunt or sharp, being shoved all up in my chest and face areas.
“So this friend of yours. They wouldn’t happen to be an angel, would they?”
Mason nodded slowly. “He was. I mean, he is. I didn’t want to believe it when I met him, when he told me about Samyaza. I guess I was in denial the whole time. He tried to tell me what I was, but I wasn’t having any of it. The day I turned eighteen a bunch of angels burst into my home and tried to murder me. Called me an abomination and shit. I mean of course I’d have trust issues, right?”
“Angels, man,” I said, shaking my head. “You never know with them. There’s good ones, bad ones, good fallen ones, and I presume bad fallen ones, too.”
“Wasn’t Lucifer a fallen angel, too?”
“I guess that makes him the Big Bad Fallen One, then.”
“Oh. You know, these showed up all over my body on my eighteenth birthday, too.”
Mason pushed himself up off the floor, then pulled his shirt up over his head.
“Whoa, dude,” I said. “We just met.”
He chuckled. “Idiot.”
There they were in their full glory, all over Mason’s chest, stomach, arms, and shoulders: a crisscross and scrawl of unintelligible sigils, similar to those that were etched into Samyaza’s skin. I stood up, burning with curiosity, eager to take a closer look.
The main difference, I noticed, was how Mason’s tattoos, or markings – call them what you will – pulsed with a yellowish, almost golden light. One other thing I noticed: Mason was not unfamiliar with the concept of regular exercise.
“Samyaza had these too,” I said. “I mean, I can’t say for sure if they were the exact same patterns and glyphs, but he had this writing all over his torso. But his were bright blue. I don’t know if that means anything, honestly. He certainly couldn’t use the Vestments the way you can.”
“Hurt like hell, too. It felt like, I don’t know, like being branded, like my skin was on fire. Maybe something was unsealed when his essence went into me. I don’t know. Does that make sense?”
“Sort of. Sam did say that the only way to really release his power was to – well, it was what he had to do to save me.” I stuck my hands in my pockets, gazed at the floor, then back up at Mason. “I didn’t ask him to, you know. That’s how righteous he was. It was his decision to cut himself open, to give me what he gave me. And to give you whatever it is you have now.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Mason scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve been giving you a hard time, but I never even knew him. I guess that’s why I’m pissed off, a little. I thought I’d get to meet my dad.”
“Yeah. I get why you’d be sore about that.” Neither of us had apologized to the other, but something passed between us all the same.
Mason bit on his lower lip, chewing over his questions, then finally picking one. “What was he like? My father?”
“Your mom never told you about him?”
He chewed on his lip again. “She’s dead, too. We never talked about him.”
My heart clenched. It was getting harder and harder to keep hating this Mason kid.
“Well. Sam, he was a really nice guy, you know? You’d think fallen angels would be jerks, but no. He cared about humanity. A lot. There was this whole plot to wipe out mankind, and Sam was working really hard to stop that from happening.”
Mason smiled, like that answer satisfied some part of him.
“And he really knew how to throw a punch. Sam didn’t have access to most of his power, but he could really hold his own in a fight. Flatten just about anyone.”
His smile grew even wider.
“Plus, and I’m just repeating myself at this point, he saved my life. That’s the kind of man your dad was.”
“Thank you. For telling me that. For remembering.” He stared down at his hands for a moment, then looked back up at me. “One thing, though. You called me Mammon before, out on the street. Mammon. Did I say that right? An
yway. Who or what is that?”
I shuddered. “Ugh. One of the demon princes. There’s one for every deadly sin, then a ton more for other vices. Mammon is the demon prince of greed, and it wants something from me. Well, from the whole Boneyard, actually. It wants Banjo.”
Mason raised his eyebrow. “Banjo?”
“I’ll introduce you later. It’s this whole thing.”
“You know, I met my own demon prince. Back in Humpuck.”
I chuckled. “Humpuck? What the hell is that?”
“Town I’m from, few hundred miles from here. Don’t ask, it’s terrible. I call it Bumfuck.”
I laughed. Not a bad sense of humor on this kid, if I was being honest.
“Anyway, my demon prince was Beelzebub. Demon prince of gluttony.”
I leaned forward, suddenly so interested. “And lord of the flies. Holy shit. What was Beelzebub like?”
But before Mason could answer, Sterling cut in from behind us.
“Finally, some action around here.” I turned to him, frowning. He was leering at me and Mason – more specifically, at the fact that Mason still had his top off.
Gil blinked. “What happened to your shirt, Mason?”
Asher stood with his arms folded. “So, the two of you seem to be getting a little more comfy with each other.”
Herald nudged his glasses up his nose, grinning as he looked between the two of us. “I mean, I’m not mad about it.”
Mason cocked his hip and spread his arms out, flexing, wearing a shit-eating grin of his own. “A little boning at the Boneyard, finally?”
I clenched my fists, struggling to hide how flustered I was getting. “He was showing me the markings on his body,” I said. “You’re all disgusting. He’s practically my son.”
“Call him Daddy,” Sterling stage-whispered. “Do it. Do it for Uncle Sterling.”
Mason shrugged his shirt back on, laughing from deep inside his chest. It was nice to see everyone getting along, but still.
“Perverts,” I said. “Every last one of you.”
Chapter 23
“This has to be some kind of joke,” I said, staring at the enormous pack of cheesy snacks cradled like a baby in Sterling’s arms.
